


Wiser Eyes

by Harutemu



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Fix-It, Other, Secret Solenoid, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 22:51:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17252900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harutemu/pseuds/Harutemu
Summary: Megatron is dead and victory feels like anything but that. Given one chance to change the history of Cybertron, Optimus returns as Orion Pax and faces Cybertron's Council in the hope that both he and Megatron can escape the fate that awaits them.





	Wiser Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).



It was a choreographed dance, a bitter song that had played for them for as long as they’d fought.

Dazed and reeling from loss, Optimus still reflexively clung to the side of the Nemesis. Megatron sneered down at him, blade raised overhead dramatically as he mocked him.

Before Optimus could engage his newly forged flight engines, a voice called out Megatron’s name, a discordant note. Turning away to meet the intruder Megatron froze, the sound of metal cleanly shorn singing above his choking gasp.

The Dark Star Saber whined through the air as it fell from suddenly lax fingers, whirling past Optimus to the emptiness below. A last rattle of struggling vents came from above, the shriek of metal against metal. Optimus could see Megatron’s raised hand grasp weakly for his fallen sword, the Prime’s grief and confusion spiralling higher.

He watched the warlord fall just as he’d watched Bumblebee moments before, Megatron’s great silver form tumbling out of reach. Megatron’s lifeless optics were the last thing Optimus saw of him, the Earth’s atmosphere quick to claim his shell, devouring it in fire.

Megatron was gone, however his empty stare would haunt Optimus long after that fateful day.

Their war was finally over, the dance finished, leaving silence and ash behind as the survivors struggled to rebuild Cybertron.

Optimus tried to be thankful. As he watched Cybertron light up once more from within, and as he watched spaceships, Autobot and otherwise return to their war ravaged planet.

He tried to find meaning in the slow rise of buildings and in the spectre of hope growing in his people’s optics.

Every Autobot life lost had been a blow, one more star disappearing from the sky above and leaving the night darker. Megatron's loss had been different. Without Megatron, Optimus seemed to stumble on without direction, existence a cold and dim twilight without end. Like it had been his spark extinguished by Prima’s holy sword.

As if in a daze, Optimus watched as his team fragmented, each finding their own separate path on their reborn world, whether finding a new beginning, returning to old dreams, or searching for absolution.

As their civilization spread and the landscape lit up, Optimus found himself flying further and further away for a moment of quiet, unable to pretend at joy he didn’t feel and unwilling to be a deterrent of that of others.

On one such flight, he stopped returning to Iacon and the Autobot Headquarters completely.

Checking his chronometer, he sent a quick message to Ultra Magnus, informing him on his status.

Ultra Magnus’ short and concise reply was quick to come, updating him on his team’s wellbeing. And to Optimus’ relief, refrained from asking when he’d be returning.

Eventually Optimus had to stop, to cool his flight engines and fuel up. He still wasn’t comfortable in his newest form, the armor heavier, his added bulk and height cumbersome on land—and his very obvious flighted war-forged frame had made the returning civilians more than once shy away.

He rested on top of a twisted mound of metal, the ancient remains of a city long destroyed, and watched as his shadow lengthened. Behind him the sky rumbled, oily clouds shifting their colors in the dying light, the evaporated remains of tainted energon forming the beginning of an acid storm.

Venting, he forced himself up and took to the skies. Not even forge-blessed armor could withstand acid rain for long.

There were few, if any, places in the badlands to weather an acid storm. What little shelter that hadn’t been destroyed in mortar fire had been slowly eaten away by similar storms in the past.

Forcing himself higher, Optimus saw the battered skyline of the city-state over. The industrial ruins of Kaon offered little refuge, the skeletal remains of its buildings open to the elements and possible predicon encounters as well. Fighting the impulse to look to the southeast—to look back to where the Arena had once stood, Optimus kept his current flight path.

There was only one place to go in Kaon that would, even now, offer both a tactical advantage over Shockwave’s rogue experiments and shelter from the rain.

Battle-marked and abandoned, Darkmount still cut an imposing silhouette.

Coming from the side to make himself a smaller target and preparing to drop out of turret range in case any of the desolated fortress’ defenses still worked, Optimus flew in. The closer he came, the more tense he was, his weapons cycling up in response. Finally he hovered above the nearest landing platform before cutting his flight engines and dropping heavily. Nothing stirred in the surrounding shadows.

Huffing softly, Optimus entered the tower, the portcullis having long been jammed open—convenient for his entrance, but less so for keeping the rain out, should it travel so far.

It was unnerving, entering the tower so brazenly, even when the already acid-scored walkway and dead emergency lights hinted at no occupants to worry about.

Letting his biolights illuminate the way, Optimus followed the hall deeper inside Darkmount, his heavy footsteps intruding in the tomb-like silence.

The space before him suddenly opened as he reached the end of the hallway, the ceiling vaulting high, supported by twin rows of pillars leading down the massive room.

A thousand pricking fingers of morbid curiosity seemed to tug Optimus forward, biting under his plating as his meager light tried to push the darkness back, beyond the pitted pillars framing the path before him.

Shattered glass glittered as he continued deeper, but there was little else to see until he came to the back of room, his biolights catching the bottom of a step—of a dais.

Stepping up the dais, Optimus’ spark clenched, seeming to burn in his chest.

Even after the ravages of war and time, even after Optimus’ own changes, the throne still loomed grand and terrible before him.

Unthinkingly, his hands followed his eyes, brushing the ornamental spikes crowning the top and pausing at the armrest, tracing the grooves left behind by its first and only occupant. A vice squeezed his spark and Optimus clutched the arm of the chair.

Venting unevenly,he released the throne and took a step back. Dragging a hand down his face, and letting it hide his optics, Optimus waited for the sudden wave of dizziness to pass.

Weary, Optimus considered the throne, bitterness and grief tightening his throat. In the end he settled beside it, letting his back rest against the side of the throne, mildly surprised it held steady under his weight. After some wiggling of his bulk he found a position that was at least stable.

He hadn’t expected to fall asleep. Yet the darkness of the room seemed to swallow his thoughts as completely as his vision. The distant sigh of rain drew closer, hissing against Darkmount’s walls and bearing his consciousness away.

At first he’d thought his optics had simply calibrated to the darkness, as the pillars of the throne room came into focus. He had thought it was merely fancy that he imagined the dim glow of emergency lights in the twilight. Muted colors seemed to crawl across the walls and shadows rose up, slowly taking on more detail, becoming Cybertronian in form as Optimus watched. Soundlessly, the room slowly cycled between filling with and emptying of soldiers, Optimus a mute spectator. Old memories surfaced and played out before him, until the world would blur away and reform.

Time stretched and warped oddly, eventually introducing sound. The longer the memory purge progressed the more distinct the muttering would get, and occasionally wisps of the past would manifest. The first few words of a conversation, the distant shriek and glow of mortar fire, or the tail end of a shouted command—but all were whisked away as quickly as they came.

Some memories would catch, play out in a dizzying loop, forcing Optimus to relive his fury, his sorrow, and his helplessness. In true dreamlike fashion he was swept along, unable to change the inevitable conclusion. To save a friend, to stop this weapon, to say something different. And it was futile each time.

_And what if it wasn’t futile? If you could change something what would it be?_

The High Council Chamber swam into being as if summoned, Optimus standing once again at the appellant’s bench. The massive domed ceiling gleaming like a spark crystal, sunlight streaming down from the skylight above. The stadium closed in by the wall was obscured, the council podiums towering just out of sight.

 _Is this really what you would have changed?_  
  
Optimus was at last able to locate the voice and turned to the stage in the chamber’s center. A gold light glowed, flickering as the voice spoke,and yet Optimus quickly realized he wasn’t hearing the light itself speak. He was feeling the words ring across his spark chamber—from the Matrix itself.

“It is,” he whispered. “This is where our war started—where everything ended.”

_Then choose your path wisely, Optimus Prime, soon again Orion Pax. This is a gift we give you, the last and only. Squander neither it nor your own future._

Optimus’ spark lurched. And then it began to burn, the Matrix buzzing wildly against his spark chamber as liquid fire unfurled through his lines, spreading over his protoform and armor. The Matrix suddenly stilled where it rested, the fire in his frame rapidly pulling inward, gathering around his spark. A sudden wrenching pain as it met at his spark and the fire— and the Matrix— was no more.

With that, the shadowy presence of his dream was lifted up, and the building cry in his vocalizer was silenced, escaping instead as a soundless gasp.

The thunder of many voices rolled over him, countless optics bright with curiosity or suspicion watching him from above. A gavel rapped out over the din, calling for silence and drawing Optimus’ attention to the podiums, no longer looming out of sight and bearing the High Council above the rest of the chamber.

Lingering pain flashed through Optimus’ neural net, his spark chamber aching where the Matrix once rested. There was no time for questioning the state of reality, no time to question anything, as the council session commenced.

Seated high above the council, filling the now late Zeta Prime’s chair was Sentinel, the dead Prime’s top enforcer and right hand. He stared down, optics icy, and Optimus remembered. He remembered receiving Sentinel's blessing, even as the dying mech had sought absolution. He remembered the pride and complacency of Sentinel and the Council.

Once he’d looked upon them all as ancient mechs out of touch with reality, firmly in the pockets of the guilds that ruled the castes. Now, seeing them freshly polished and not torn by unending war, they appeared as petty children, ruled by their own pride and avarice.

And in that moment, Optimus stood against them, alone.

Perhaps… Perhaps Optimus has been a little hasty in his choice, subconscious or not.

With a final crack of his gavel, the moderator signaled the session’s start. The moderator was Halogen, who would have been ultimately unaffected by the abolishment of the caste system and had been the closest thing to an ally to the cause. Halogen who Optimus would later learn had named him Prime at Alpha Trion’s council, but would die at Megatronus' hands for doing so.

Looking again, both at the council and those in the stands, Optimus saw himself surrounded by ghosts of his past.

“Today an emergency session has been scheduled, to acknowledge the rise of anti-caste agitation and the question of Cybertronian civil liberties,” Halogen launched into his opening statement without preamble.

“Further, the question of the legitimacy of castes will be addressed. The Council feels that the caste system was instituted legally and that Zeta Prime has overseen its continuation in a prudent way. Were he here, he would be able to speak for himself, but this brings us to a dire reality. There are those among us who prefer terror and violence to discussion and consensus.”

Blatantly ignoring the violence the caste system itself was responsible for, by assigning worth and expendability to a Cybertronian’s life, based off of how much shanix a guild could make off their alt-mode, Optimus thought bitterly.

Not to say that the violence and the fear-mongering hadn’t sickened and horrified him, hadn’t driven him to confront Megatronus over the crimes done in his spark’s brothers name—the assassination of Zeta, and the destruction of civilian and industrial settlements alike.

Such an ancient anger, and yet here and now, once more in this time and place, the emotions seemed to regain life, beating futilely against Optimus’ tempered patience. Yet they lived nonetheless.

Optimus schooled his expression into an empty mask that was long familiar, and watched as Halogen postured for the Grid feeds, taking on a pious tone and urging any remaining conspirators to turn themselves in to the machinery of justice.

From the farthest podium Ratbat cried out in an astounding show of hypocrisy, the first thing to truly tax Optimus’ patience since his return to the past. The rumors that had followed Ratbat hadn’t done the evil-minded councilor justice, as Optimus had learned, to his horror, early in the war.

This time, things would be different.

After Halogen admonished Ratbat and order had been restored, he drew himself up, his tone grave. Above them all, Sentinel stirred, leaning forward in his seat.

“It is said that the gladiator now known as Megatronus is responsible for the death of Zeta Prime,” the moderator intoned. “It is said that he has collaborated with the mechanisms responsible for the destruction of multiple settlements and the lives in them. This council will address these claims.”

Halogen paused, waiting until the audience had stilled to command Megatronus to enter, those watching suddenly buzzing with excitement.

Even expecting it, Optimus was still pulled in by Megatronus’ entrance. He swept in suddenly, his blue optics intense over his once more unscarred faceplates, his armor gleaming in the light.

As the council examined Megatronus, Sentinel spoke, his voice booming imperially through the chamber. “Are you the Kaonian industrial worker and so-called gladiatorial champion who assumed the moniker Megatronus?”

Unflinching, Megatronus met Sentinel's gaze, lips parting in an unfriendly grin.

“I am.”

“By what authority do you claim this name?” Sentinel demanded, optics narrowing.

“By my own and no other.”

The audience clamored at that, their voices rising in condemnation or approval. All were focused on Megatronus. Halogen called for order over the thunder of his gavel.

Restoring silence to the chamber did nothing to cool Sentinel’s ire, his lips pressed in a thin line. “If you were unaware, ‘gladiator,’ names are presented at the Well of Allsparks and nowhere else.”

“I am well aware of what passes as a name for those sparks segregated to the lower castes at the Well’s mouth,” Megatronus drawled. “I choose not to recognize it as the only means of acquiring a designation.”

Before things could devolve further, Halogen cut in. “What does it matter how a citizen comes about their name? We have far more important matters to address.”

“That being of course, your testimony before the Council.” Halogen focused his attention back on Megatronus. “Your testimony is commanded to be both truthful and complete.”

“And it will be” Megatronus promised. “I only hope that the Council doesn’t regret commanding the full truth.”

Stoically, Optimus watched Megatronus as he was sworn in, uninterested in the council, already knowing what he’d see from them. He still remembered trying to stare them down as Orion, in defiance of their distant, judging stares.

Instead, Optimus took in the sight of his brother—his enemy to be, if he was unable to change how history played out. Megatronus towered above the vast majority of the populace, his helm nearly coming up to council’s podiums.

His scars flashed in the light, drawing attention to them as he introduced himself, to council and audience alike, and told of his life, how he was born from the Allspark like anyone else—and because of his frame, assigned not a name, but a batch number. Optics darkened with memory, Megatronus told of the parody of life he and every industrial worker lived, of being expendable, replaceable. He said that it was not until he’d become a gladiator, that he’d been able to realize the worth of his life. By taking the life another warrior, hearing the cry for his own blood in the mouths of spectators, and the howls over the death of a favored gladiator. And in having worth, even as entertainment, realizing he was more than a serial number to be tracked and later forgotten. That he was worth a name that he and those that would followed him, would be proud to remember.

Pausing, he smiled at Optimus, the small curling of his lips invoking a riot of conflicting desires in the one-time Prime. “My friend Orion Pax, I thank you for helping our cause gain this platform; and to the High Council, I express my thanks for your time and attention.”

Calming his whirling spark, Optimus listened as Megatronus concluded his introduction and returned the floor to the council, waiting for their questions, which were just as quick to come as they had been the first time.

“In what way are you linked to the terrorist bombings of Six Lasers and other sites a few megacycles ago?” Contrail, a heavy flight-frame and the representative of Vos asked.

“I do not condone and I was not a part of the recent attacks against the civilian sites. While I understand the anger, the helplessness of those who committed these heinous attacks, I do not stand with them.” The protoform around Megatronus’ optics creased. “I choose to only channel my energy in a direction that will be better for all Cybertronians. I disavow any action that will not ultimately lead to a better Cybertron.”

Four million years later, and Optimus’ tanks still soured, even as he had to admire just how suited for politics and word play Megatronus was.

Knowing Megatron—knowing Megatronus as he did, he could say with near certainty that it had been the truth. His brother was never one to stand and let another claim the ‘glory’ and there was no glory to be had in destroying those ignorant to the lower castes suffering. However, he still could not forget Megatronus’ admitted suspicions of the unaffiliated fanatics attacks, nor forgive Megatronus’ silence and the death caused by it.

Yet as his brother was responsible for his own actions—or inaction as the case may be, so too was Optimus. Absolution would only be found on a Cybertron not ravaged by war.

“Interesting,” the oily croon came from Ratbat. “Truly you are exceptional, especially for one of your caste. Yet I’ve heard your words echoing across the Grid. You lay the blame of your discontent at the feet of the guilds, then demand that the council take responsibility?” The councilor tilted his bestial helm and tapped a clawed digit to his chin before continuing.

“Yet, how can you not take responsibility for how your words have inflamed the more weak-willed of your followers? Surely, if you are to be taken seriously as a leader, you too must take responsibility for the havoc caused by your rhetoric.”

“It is past the point already where Megatron can be taken seriously,” Sentinel snapped, cutting off Megatronus’ response.  
“Either this gladiator is already in league with these fanatics, these Decepticons, or he’s lost control of those who follow him,” Sentinel spat. Ratbat was quick to raise his hands in surrender, both of them missing the way Megatronus’ face twisted.

“I said I was in no way affiliated with these extremists. The lower castes have been wronged, but the ones responsible aren’t found in factories and settlements, let alone a theme park.” Megatron’s sharp bark gave him the council’s attention again. Optimus tensed, the gleam in Sentinel’s optics setting his systems pinging, searching for weapons that didn’t exist on his current frame.

“This attack took place in multiple locations spread across the planet, all on the same day. This is the work of an organized group with a mind to unite them all. If it was not you, then you truly have lost control of your followers, these Decepticons.” Fury lined Megatronus’ face, making it familiar in its hatred. “Unless,” Sentinel sneered, gaze flicking to Optimus, “You wish to say it was your data clerk friend that led this assault.”

“What I say is that you would be wise to gather evidence before flinging baseless accusations at my friend or at me!” The council, as one, jerked back at his roar.

All along, the council had only been searching for a scapegoat, Optimus realized.

“What I say is that I do not care what another mechanism will name me!” Megatronus continued, seeming to fill the stage. “But if you wish to call me a Decepticon, then perhaps it is fitting.” He bared his fangs at the council.

“This entire meeting has been a charade, a deception that the council is hiding behind.” As if in a daze, Optimus watched as Megatronus turned his back on the council, facing instead those in the observation rings. Memory and reality clashed together as Megatron’s words took on new meaning to Optimus.

“We are being deceived.”

Spark spinning out of control, Optimus watched as the audience seemed to rise up and shout, as boisterous as the spectators in the colosseum.

Optimus had thought that by changing this meeting, by standing with Megatronus instead of separating their people, he could divert the civil war that followed. Now, seeing the frenzied, collective desire for equality and truth as a basic right, that the civil war had been long in coming, even before this day, even before Megatronus and Optimus themselves.

Looking upon the council, upon Sentinel and the guild masters, seeing the varying degrees of resignation, spurned pride, and unyielding hardness, he realized the council had known as well.

“Your audacity knows no bounds!” Sentinel thundered, his voice freezing the mecha in the stands.

“Yet your pride outstrips it!” Megatronus snarled back.

The podium creaked where Sentinel’s fingers gripped it, his voice a poisonous hiss, “You fail to know your place, miner, and how to speak to your betters!”

“You are no bot’s better, least of all mine!” A curled fist was slammed against a silver breastplate in emphasis. “You, and the entire council with you, fail to understand that it is every Cybertronian’s right to speak out against the council, to question their actions and to demand change when those actions fail to serve Cybertron! The only ones who you have served are yourselves, and the guild masters who have filled your coffers. If you will not change, then perhaps another should stand in your stead!”  
  
“You DARE-”

“SILENCE!” Halogen roared over the both of them, the sound of his gavel cracking through the air.

“There will be order! Never in all my days have I seen such a display, such a lack of decorum from councilmech and citizen. If you cannot conduct yourself in a civil manner, then you will not speak!”

Silence reigned as Halogen vented furiously before suddenly stilling. Optimus watched, wary as the moderator seemed to age and shrink as he remastered himself, tired optics flickering to the councilors before rising to the guild master tables at the base of the observation ring.

“We have heard the words of both Megatronus and the council. Many accusations have been leveled against both. I call forward now the guild master’s representative, to address those leveled towards the guilds on the subject of the caste system.”

Outrage reborn rose through Optimus as Sigil stood, as Optimus remembered the vile things he was about to say. Yet with a furious clarity, Optimus turned to watch the council, watch the frantic silence of traded comms, watched Halogen seem to shrink further as he sat. His gaze resolutely set on Optimus himself.

The council was buying time—from Sigil’s slander of Megatronus, followed by the guild’s blasphemous decree that the castes were the Primus-ordained order—to Optimus’— to Orion’s own stand. And furious at Megatronus, dissatisfied with Megatronus’ silence and with standing in his brother’s shadow, he’d handed the council the perfect cover.

He’d never been meant to find the Matrix—he was supposed to have returned empty handed, proven unworthy—and either Megatronus or himself made to shoulder the crimes of the fanatics, breaking the spirit of those that had found courage in their cause. Allowing the council to cling to their dwindling power just that much longer.

Before Sigil’s conclusion was finished, before Halogen could call Orion Pax to the stand, before the moderator could name him Prime and send him journeying for the Matrix, Optimus stepped forward and raised his voice, calling for their attention as he had once called armies.

“Enough!”

As his command rang through the chamber, Optimus forged on.

“You bring the name of Primus into this travesty, and you claim the accomplishments of the many, of our ancestors as your own!” Sigil tried to speak out in affront, but Optimus let his voice rise over the guild speaker.

“When your wrongs are brought to light, you slander Megatronus, calling him a murderer, when your own hands—the hands of every guild leader, every council member, is stained with the deaths of the lower caste.”

“Megatronus is right, this entire session has been a farce. Even now we are being deceived. No peaceful resolution is to be found here, no exchange of minds and words. This is all merely to buy the council a little more time, for them to grasp onto their power for a little bit longer.”

“Because of their poor stewardship of the Cybertronian people, because of their greed and power granted by the wealth generated for the upper caste, by the guilds, that their time as powers over cybertron have come to an end.

“In poor faith, they have wasted the time of every bot here,” turning away from the council, Optimus mirrored Megatronus, and spoke to those seated in the observation ring.

“Megatronus would have better spent his time searching the Rust Sea for the Matrix of Leadership, then searching for truth among the council—”

His attention fully on the spectators, Optimus didn’t see Sentinel rise and take aim with his integrated weaponry, optics pale with fury.

The weight of Megatronus crashing into his side, shielding him with his armor caught him by surprise.

Chaos ruled, someone screaming before multiple voices joining, choked off as the lights suddenly died, plunging the chamber into blackness and bringing a halt to the blaster fire, before the sound rose even more frantic then before. Had it been all for nothing, Optimus wondered, dread threading through his lines. Would he still lose Megatron even now?

Megatronus cursed nearby and a familiar fully visored face suddenly loomed above him, tilted down thoughtfully before reaching down and grabbing him.

Yelping in a less than dignified way as Soundwave threw him over his shoulder, his pauldron digging into Optimus’ stomach, Optimus did the only thing he could and clung to the carrier mech.

Darkly amused laughter followed them and Optimus sagged in relief as Megatronus, alive, well and weapons unfired, quickly took up the rear. “I see now where your allegiance lies, Soundwave,” Megatronus mocked.

Soundwave snorted, not bothering to verbally respond. Snickering, Megatronus turned his attention back to Optimus on his impromptu perch.

“The Rust Sea you say, Orion? Perhaps you should’ve saved us all some time instead of insisting on this elaborate farce.”

Light headed with joy and relief, Optimus laughed shakily. He’d done it—they’d done it. Perhaps the future was uncertain, but together with Megatronus, he would face it gladly.

The ghost of a voice whispered across his spark chamber, right where the Matrix once rested.

_Are you sure this is what you want?_

Even in the face of an uncertain future, that moment, seeing the warmth and trust in the optics of the one who’s spark was half of his own, Optimus knew his answer.

_Always._

**Author's Note:**

> PROMPT for Secret Solenoid: TFP: Megatron, Optimus Prime. Megatron/Optimus Prime. Megatron is dead. Optimus should be happy. He's really not. The Matrix unexpectedly sends him back in time to the day when he betrayed Megatron and gives him a chance to do it over (optionally Groundhog Day style). 
> 
> (Many, many thanks to Trebletwenty and kitkaters for helping me navigate the murky waters that is the aligned continuity, my beta Perictione, and everyone in Swerve's for the moral support!)


End file.
